


bloodstain

by angamandos (mallyrn)



Series: gilded trophies [1]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Figging, M/M, Menstrual Sex, Menstruation, Sexual Slavery, Sort Of, Trans Male Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-25
Updated: 2020-02-25
Packaged: 2021-03-12 20:09:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 749
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22890460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mallyrn/pseuds/angamandos
Summary: Fëanor finds blood on one his chairs. This is unacceptable.
Relationships: Fëanor | Curufinwë/Finrod Felagund | Findaráto
Series: gilded trophies [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1645390
Comments: 1
Kudos: 18





	bloodstain

**Author's Note:**

> set in a universe where finarfin and his children (minus galadriel) are feanor's sex slaves.

Finrod stands in the submissive posture that Fëanor expects of him, with his legs close together, his hands hanging loosely at his sides, and his gaze averted. There’s a chair from one of the lounges beside Fëanor, stained with a few small drops of blood. “Do you want to explain this to me, brat? Or do I need to call your father in to do it for you?” 

Finrod controls the instinctive shudder of fear that wants to tremble through his body, and says, “My time of the year started four nights ago, and the bleeding is heavy. I used one of your chairs during my bleeding, which is against the rules.” His voice doesn’t even shake. Fëanor has him trained well, and he is the most obedient out of all his siblings. 

But no amount of training could prevent him from bleeding once a year. He wishes it could, because Fëanor doesn’t like it when this prevents the use of his favorite hole. 

The office is silent for another few moments. Then Fëanor orders, “Come here. Now.” He sits on the bloodied chair and opens his arms. Finrod obediently walks over to him. “Over my lap.” The blonde princeling silently lowers himself down on his stomach across Fëanor’s thighs. Fëanor rips down his trousers and takes the riding crop from its usual place on a stand at the back of his desk.

“Thirty-four strikes, to start with,” Fëanor decides. “That is how many years you have bled for, is it not?”

Finrod stays very still, even as his legs tremble from fearful anticipation. “Yes, sir,” he confirms, staring intently at a single imperfection in the marble floor. That might as well be him, right now - a flaw in the otherwise pristine workings of his uncle’s household.

Fëanor runs the riding crop lightly down his spine and the cleft of his round, soft cheeks, then even lower, tickling the fine golden hairs between his thighs. He makes a noise of disgust as it inevitably comes back up with a smear of blood on the black leather. “If you bleed on me, I’m adding another four strikes.” He leans down to whisper in Finrod’s ear - “Since I know you cannot control when you bleed, I am making this a little bit easier for you, under the assumption that you won’t bleed on my furniture again. If you do, I will be very disappointed in you. You have been so good and obedient. Now, start counting.” 

The first strike hits. Finrod gasps, “One!”

He’s wailing by the twenty-eighth. “T-Twenty-nine! Oh - ow ow ow!” He flinches and closes his mouth, afraid that Fëanor will be angry with him. But, frighteningly, his uncle pets his hair and murmurs, “Only if you bleed on me, pet.”

Another strike. “Aaa-! Thirty! Thirty.”

“Only four more to go.” The last strikes pass quickly, almost too quickly, now that there is an end in sight. Fëanor dumps him unceremoniously off of his lap when he is finished. Finrod’s bruised buttocks collide painfully with the marble floor, and he yelps before frantically pulling his trousers back up, not wanting to get any blood on the floor.

He gets on his hands and knees and waits for any further instructions. Fëanor’s boot lifts his chin up to meet his gaze. “Stand up and take them off again,” he snaps, nodding to the blonde’s trousers. Finrod rushes to comply. “Turn around.” Like a good little pet, he does so. Behind him, Fëanor opens a drawer in his desk - he can tell from the sound. Finrod forces himself not to look.

A long, elegant finger presses up into his hole, coated with a gritty paste that starts to burn a few seconds after contact. Finrod resists the urge to cry out. “It’s ginger, my pet,” Fëanor explains, stroking the small of his back with his other hand, even as he spreads more ginger onto Finrod’s nethers. “Does it burn that bad?” Finrod doesn’t provide an answer, unsure if he is allowed, and Fëanor does not demand one. Instead, he pulls the blonde’s trousers back up and stands, putting his mouth very close to Finrod’s neck. 

“Are you going to sit on my furniture while bleeding, again?” He asks.

“..N-No,” Finrod manages. Fëanor kisses his collarbone once and dismisses him, but not before giving him permission to bathe this evening. 

The ginger washes off, as does the blood, but Finrod can’t help but feel that his inner thighs are still stained red. 

**Author's Note:**

> i'm afab transmasc and i got mad that i still have periods, and so i took it out on finrod. that's it. that's the entire reason i wrote this fic.


End file.
